Like Rumi, I found my shams or teacher. He stood at the top of a flight of stairs in a smelly old building in a beaten-down neighborhood that hadn't seen its glory days for a hundred years. We shared a love affair of the souls. I burned in his absence; he made me raw in his presence. We hid our love from those around us. Alone, late at night, he served as midwife to my soul. Someday, he said, I would tell my story. His final lesson was offered in his death. He bequeathed me a stone. Stones are often the link between the physical and the spiritual. His stone is my Kabah. I circle it outwardly as he circles heaven inwardly. The final lesson: Death changes nothing--he is still my teacher.
As ever, D.
(Photo by Martin on Unsplash)